After school Jeep meets me at the car. He stands there, waiting patiently. He must have had to haul his big ass to get there before me. He’s no lithe-bodied sprinter. Jeep’s not fat, but he’s sort of a teddy bear-type body, tall and squishy-massive. His giant grin greets me as I put my key in the car door, get in, and reach over to unlock his door.

“Let’s burn some rubber, Dew,” he says, settling into his seat.

There is no way I am going to “burn some rubber.” My daddy—even as old and as big as I am—would tan my hide with his belt if he caught me mistreating his car.

I pull out of the parking lot with all the caution my grandpa taught me when he gave me driving lessons, and we head home. Jeep, just like this morning, never shuts up.

“Okay, so what about geometry homework? You done it yet? I tried to do it in class, but not only was I clueless, but I kept nodding off.”“It was an easy theorem, Jeep. I can show you.”

“Come inside when you drop me off. I think we have some Cokes. You like Cokes? Ma bought some at the store yesterday, I’m sure. I told her to get some Grapettes, some RCs, some Dr Peppers, some Nehi Oranges, and some Big Reds, so we got all kinds of Cokes to choose from.”

Yep, I could tell Jeep was a Texan born and raised. Around here, we call any kind of cold drink a Coke, no matter what the brand is.

“I could drink a Nehi,” I say.

“Nehi it is.”

He tells me his address, which is in the subdivision right next to ours. Now, we’re not rich or anything, but our little two-bedroom house with my bedroom addition Daddy added is a mansion compared to the house Jeep lives in. It is about half the size of ours, the paint is peeling, and the screen door sticks.

I find myself in a tiny living room. There is a fold-out divan, a chair, a coffee table—with three legs and a stack of phone books propping up the fourth corner—and a little old black-and-white TV. I notice a small kitchen off this room to the right, and Jeep leads me through a door to a little bedroom in back of the living room.

“This is my room. Ma sleeps on the couch. She likes it. Says it helps her back.”

I don’t question him, but in my heart I know his mother probably chose the couch because she wanted her son to have his own room.Jeep’s room has a single-sized bed, a little desk with chair, and a chest of drawers. There is a bathroom off that, and when I peek, I see also the bathroom opens into the kitchen.

Pointing to the bed, Jeep says, “Have a seat. I’ll get us our Cokes.”

I sit as he disappears. I look around. He has a battered stereo with a stack of record albums. The one on top reads Vanilla Fudge. In the corner is an electric guitar with an amp. That is about it for the room. Not much here.

Jeep comes back carrying two bottles: my Nehi Orange and a Grapette for himself. “These Cokes are icy cold. Just what we need after a hard day’s work.”

He pulls out the desk chair and plops down in it after handing me my drink.

He takes a long swig of Grapette. He lets out a moan of ecstasy. The boy likes his grape drink, I think. Then he jumps up, grabs the Vanilla Fudge album, pulls out the record, and puts it on the turntable. “Now you’re in for a treat.”

Very strange sounds come from the machine. He has it cranked up as loud as it will go. I recognize the song, but this version is a far cry from the Rascals’ record. It assaults me at first, but within thirty seconds I find myself responding to the look on Jeep’s face. His eyes are closed, and he is lost in another world. I close my eyes too. And that simple act is amazing. Shutting out the entire world, suspended in darkness, I get it; this group speaks to me. I’d heard my English teacher use the word enraptured to describe the Romantic poets. Then I just laughed to myself at her word. But listening to “People Get Ready” now makes me realize truly what enraptured means. It is an experience I will never forget.

The song comes to an end, and I open my eyes. Jeep reaches over to take the needle from the record. I swear I see tears drop from his cheek.“What did you think?” he says, as he replaces the record in its cardboard sleeve, being careful to touch only the outer rim of the vinyl, like he cherishes it.

I can’t figure out what to say. I want to speak. But somehow, anything I say won’t describe what I felt, what I’m feeling.

Jeep looks at me. I look at him. Somehow, he knows. He knows how I’m feeling. And words aren’t needed.

And he breaks the spell. “Geometry?”

He pulls his book from the pile he’d brought into the room, and I spend the next twenty minutes explaining the homework to him. He’s a fast learner. Jeep is no dummy. He may be a hippie freak—that’s what everyone I know calls his kind; never just hippie, always hippie freak—but he is my hippie freak new friend. And he is funny, and smart, and sensitive. I’d learned that today about him.We finish our homework, and then he bellows, “Now, how about that haircut?”

“Jeep,” I protest, “I can’t give you a haircut. What if I mess it up?”

He primps like a girl and says, “You can’t mess up these curly locks.”

He hands me scissors, and I very carefully trim around his ears. He looks in the mirror and pronounces me hairstylist of the year, even asks if he can make another appointment in two weeks at my “salon.”

We both laugh at his mimicry. And it is a good laugh.

As I start to leave, he thrusts the record album at me. “Don’t forget your Fudge,” he says. I feel like I’ve just been given the most precious gift he could bestow.

Somehow, I know he is going to “miss” the bus the next morning. And probably every morning thereafter.